Becoming Round (SWF)

Behind the pond and beyond a barbed wire fence, I can walk out onto the farmland bordering our property. Here, the tall oaks draw a noticeable line where untamed grass and scrub meet furrowed field. And I can stand with feet in both places—shelter and a yawning space.

Into the chilly morning air, I stepped—and stepped over again, onto brown earth, where stalks still stand knee-high. Not a car passes down the little lane that divides this field from the next, and it would appear I am alone on this stage under a bright blue autumn sky.

From here, hunters will stand and fire shots above, as the geese drawn to spilled corn take flight and swing in a wide arc above our pond.
From the land I cannot protect, to the land I can, and will.

Though most has been caught and carted away, a few scattered cobs have escaped the harvest—plumpness in buff jackets, lying freely in the open air. And so, I stole one and then another, until my jacket, tethered at the waist, became full to my chin.
And I returned home, satisfyingly round.

Outside my window, a chipmunk is rounding himself, as well, with fallen seeds from a small tube feeder in the Hawthorn.
Each, in our own way, rearranging our world.
Filling pockets with riches.
Scurrying home.

Corncob left behind

Frosty Field

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